Scars: An X-Men Elseworlds tale by Maverick
by Maverick2
Summary: Remy Lebeau, a survivor in a war-ravaged world, comes upon a silent girl, and needs help from Father Kurt, a Catholic Priest.
1. Default Chapter Title

> >   

>> 
>> # Scars: An X-Men Elseworlds Story
>> 
>>   
By Maverick
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Disclaimer: This is a work of speculative fiction. It is not intended in any way to infringe upon the rights of Marvel Comics, Mr. Stan "The Man" Lee, The New Orleans Thieves' Guild, The Arch Diocese of New Orleans, or any other interested parties.   
  
This story is a prequel to Dannell Lites's most excellent story, ["Life Among the Ruins"][1] It was written at her insistence, and with her expressed permission. Actually, she threatened me with bodily injury if I didn't write it.   
  
Cast of characters: Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Rogue, and a few others.   
  
Miscellaneous notes: The church referred to in the story actually exists. It is Our Lady of Guadalupe Roman Catholic Church, in New Orleans. As it has the only known shrine of St. Expedite, it is to his honor that this story is dedicated. There is a small amount of French dialog. A translation follows the end of the story.  
  
Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä  
  
Scars  
By Father of Lies  
  
A. D. 2012 New Orleans, Louisiana  
  
Remy LeBeau had had a fairly good day, all told. Scavenging was his forte, and today had been especially good. He'd found a coat, heavy canvas that reached down below his knees, with large pockets that were perfect for stashing the fruits of his labors. Besides the coat, he'd also obtained a sealed bottle of wine, and that was worth a small fortune in the right places. Of course, he'd had to break into a church for it, and that bothered his conscience no little bit; Jean-Luc LeBeau had been a thief, but he'd also been a very pious man, even if it was in more than one religion, and he had instilled this somewhat bent moral code into his son. But, pious or not, Remy was not one to overlook an opportunity when he found one, and the open door of the church had been too much to resist. The priest had discovered him with the bottle in his hands, and had chased him all around the ruined nave of the church. Still, he couldn't blame the man, and in the end, he was sure the good father would understand; he was a priest, after all.   
  
"Prob'ly sayin' prayers for me right now," Remy laughed to himself. He'd traded the wine for a bag of bread and produce that would last him a week or more, a box of candles, a half carton of cigarettes, and most incredible of all, a bottle of aspirin tablets. He reached into the bag and grabbed a pear, devouring it in a matter of minutes. It had been a couple of days since he'd had anything to eat, and he was ravenous. He followed the pear with an apple, a chunk of bread the size of his fist, and washed it down with a long pull from his water bottle.   
  
Yes, he felt pretty good, the best he'd felt in a long time. Jean-Luc, the thief who'd found him as an infant in his dead parents' arms and had raised him as his own son, had been dead since the previous spring, nearly a year. Not a day went by that Remy didn't miss him, but he knew, somehow, his Papa was keeping a watchful eye on him. Jean-Luc had taught him every trick he knew to survive in a world that gave precious few first chances, let alone a second, and Remy was a survivor, one of the best. Now, he was even beginning to regain his usual optimism. He took the day's excellent luck as evidence of Jean-Luc's supernatural intervention, and that made him feel very good. He whistled as he walked back toward the overpass that served as his home, smiling to the few people he passed, most of whom smiled back. This made his mood even better; despite everything - the staggering loss of life, the hardships, the criminal threat - New Orleanians were still, by and large, friendly folk. It would take more than the end of civilization to dampen the spirit of these people.  
  
He was nearly half way to his shelter when he stopped. He heard a noise, one that didn't fit. One of the first lessons his Papa had taught him was to pay attention to sounds, as much as to sights, smells, and anything else he could notice. Information gave you an edge, maybe kept you alive another day. He listened hard, following the sounds to a small house, tucked behind a larger, decayed mansion. He made his way carefully through the rubble of the ruined mansion, silently drawing closer to the sound he heard.   
  
He eased himself up against the side of the building, and looked through the window. Eyes wide, he had to turn away, and for a few moments was violently ill; so much for the celebratory breakfast he'd just downed. With shaking hands, he lit a cigarette, and took the time to smoke it; the tobacco was awful stuff, very harsh, but it had the effect of calming his nerves while at the same time giving him time to build up his courage. He finished it, tossed it aside, and then, squaring his shoulders, continued around the building, until he found the entryway.  
  
It had been well disguised, nearly hidden behind overgrown trees and kudzu. He was sure that most people passing by wouldn't notice it, especially if the inhabitants were silent. It had once been a lovely little house, that was certain, not large, but still showing signs of having been cared for and kept up, and it was apparently whole, a rarity these days. Even now, it had a well tended vegetable garden outside, even a few patches of flowers, and the inside was as clean as current conditions would allow. He took another few deep breaths, and went inside.   
  
The walls were splattered with blood, blood soaked the floorboards, blood soaked the meager furniture. Blood, everywhere, and especially on the nude body lying in the middle of the room. A woman, perhaps in her early thirties, no more. Black hair, and the eyes that stared blindly at him were deep brown. Probably she'd been very beautiful in life. She'd been beaten, undoubtedly raped and tortured before being killed; even in death, her features showed the terror of her last minutes of life. He fought down his rising gorge, and turned away. He tore down the ragged velvet draperies from the boarded window and covered her with it. With that small decency done, he crossed himself, uttering a soft prayer for her soul in the Cajun French his father had taught him. Then, he sought out the source of the crying he'd heard. Following the sound of the weeping, he soon located a survivor of the attack.  
  
She was young, not more than eleven or twelve, if even that; probably born after Mardi Mort, the New Orleans name for the day the old world had ended in a spectacular, deadly display. Her hair was matted with blood, all down one side of her head, and her face bore an ugly, scabbed over wound. She cowered under what had been a table, staring up at him with eyes that didn't register anything but fear. She was covered in blood, and with another gut-wrenching shock, he realized that she'd not been spared the fate of the woman.  
  
Remy knelt down beside her, speaking softly, not making any sudden moves. "It's alright, chere. I won' hurt you. I swear on my papa's tomb, I won' hurt you. You come out here, yeah? Let Remy help you, p'tite. You need help, you can't stay here . . . " Softly, gently, it took the better part of an hour, but he coaxed her out into the open.   
  
He kept up the soft, reassuring patter all the while, and checked her for any other injuries. Aside from the head wounds, and the obvious evidence of the rape, she seemed mostly unharmed, at least physically. She was very cold, though, and probably in shock. He took off the trench coat, and wrapped her in it. Then, he used his precious lighter to set fire to the draperies and the wallpaper; he couldn't do anything for the dead woman, but he could at least prevent her body from being further desecrated. The wooden lath was so dried, it caught almost immediately, and after making sure the small house was well and truly afire, he picked up the child, and left.  
  
What he was going to do now, he had no clue. He only knew he couldn't leave her there, she'd die. A part of him wondered if that wouldn't be the kinder thing, but a louder part of him kept reminding him, she could survive this, she'd already survived this much. And, he knew he had to do it. Jean Luc had often told him: we're thieves, but that doesn't mean we don't do as much good as we can.  
  
So, Remy began walking. The girl wasn't much of a burden, and he had long legs; it didn't take long to reach his destination. He wasn't sure why he chose the direction he did, but it seemed right, somehow. Something told him to return to the church he'd robbed that morning; for some reason he couldn't fathom, he knew that the priest was one human being he could trust implicitly. He gently set her on the ground, in a sheltered place that had once been a shrine. Then, limber as a monkey, he returned to the heavy front door.  
  
"Hey, Faddah!" He pounded on the door as hard as he could. "Faddah! You still here?" He pounded again. "Come on, open up, I need your help."  
  
"Who is it?" came a strong voice from inside.  
  
"It's Remy LeBeau, Faddah." Not that the priest would know the name, but he did ask.  
  
The door opened about a handspan, and a narrow face peered out. "You!" The door slammed shut with a loud bang. A long string of cursing came from inside. "This is a house of God! Have you no shame!"   
  
"Please, listen!" Remy pleaded. "You got to let me in. I found a child, she needs your help." He reached down to his boot, and took out the heavy knife he kept there, using the hilt to pound on the door. "Come on, you a priest, you got to help me!"  
  
"You're right," came the voice from inside. "I'll help you." The door opened again, but this time, the priest was armed. He held a baseball bat, and swung it at Remy. "I'll help you all right! Go away! There's nothing left for you to steal!" His eyes lit on the knife still in Remy's upraised hand, and he swung the bat harder. "So, what, you kill me now? Not without a fight!"  
  
Remy jumped back out of range of the bat. "Look, Faddah, I'm sorry about dis morning, okay?" He quickly flipped the knife around, holding the blade towards himself. "Look, here, you take de knife, yeah? I won't hurt you. Please, Faddah, she needs help."  
  
The priest hesitated, looking from the knife to Remy's face. He peered into the boy's eyes, and slowly let down the bat. He reached out with one hand and took the knife, and waved it at Remy. "Alright, you back away, down the steps. Then we talk."  
  
Remy did as he was told, and reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette. The priest watched him like a hawk, and tightened his grip on the bat; at Remy's display of the pack of smokes, he let it hang by his side again. Lighting the cigarette, Remy noticed for the first time that the priest's hands were gnarled and badly scarred. Burns, it looked like, an old injury that had healed badly. The man was in his forties, perhaps late thirties; he'd have to be, Remy reckoned, since vocations to the priesthood went out with the rest of civilization. He had black hair, graying at the temples, and very angular features. His eyes were dark brown, and despite the mistrust glaring out at him, Remy sensed that the man was a gentle, kind soul at heart. He felt a twinge of regret and guilt for having stolen from this man. He vowed he'd make up for it, somehow.  
  
"Now, where is this child who needs my help?" The priest had tucked Remy's knife into his belt, and put his fists on his hips, feet planted firmly apart, ready for anything.   
  
"She's, um, over here." For an instant, Remy was reminded of a man in one of the movies his papa had shown him, back when there was still such a thing as electricity in New Orleans; a dashing young man with a broad smile, a flashing sword, and a carefree laugh as he bested the villain. "I found her in a house over in the Garden District. She's been hurt bad. Real bad."   
  
The priest sighed, and nodded. "Very well, go get her. We'll take her inside."  
  
Remy ran to the shelter where he'd left the girl, and was relieved to see that she was asleep. Gingerly he picked her up, taking care to keep her far from the lit end of the cigarette that hung from his mouth, and returned to the front of the church. He followed the priest inside, and up to the front of the nave. Remy paused before the altar, and bowed his head slightly. He noted the priest genuflected before passing the burning vigil light, and with some difficulty, did the same. The priest looked back at him, his face thoughtful.   
  
"So, you are not a complete heathen, I suppose," he said, his voice tinged with the barest hint of amusement.   
  
"No, Faddah," Remy answered, as they went into what had been the Sacristy. "Look, I'm real sorry about stealing your wine. But I got a lot of stuff for it, and it's all yours, you and the child, if you help her." He had no idea why he'd just offered to give away his hard earned loot, but there was something about this man of God that made him want to do something good. Besides, his conscience was giving him a headache.  
  
"Put her down here," the priest said, gesturing to a pallet on the floor. "It's clean, and I'll get a blanket."  
  
"You know any doctorin'?" Remy asked, placing her gently on the pallet. "She's got a bad cut on her head, and - other stuff."  
  
"So you said," the priest opened a cabinet, and began rummaging around.   
  
"You don't have no extra clothes do you?" Remy asked. "She, uh, ain't got none at the moment."  
  
The priest took out what looked to be a large shirt, and handed it to Remy. He unfolded it, showing it to be a surplice. "Will that do?" the priest asked, turning back to the cupboard. "And would you please just tell me what you are trying so hard not to say."  
  
Remy ground out his cigarette on the marble floor, and then unwrapped the girl, tossing his new coat aside and putting the little smock-like garment on her. For the first time, he could see the bruises and the other evidence of her ordeal. With shaking hands, he pulled over her the blanket the priest had handed him, and tried to speak. His throat was tight, and there was a lump in his throat the size of his boot. He dropped to his knees, then, and pulled his arms tightly around his body, fighting against the trembling that threatened to overtake him.   
  
He felt a hand brushing his hair out of his face. "I think I understand," the priest said gently. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder, and squeezed it. "You've never seen this sort of depravity before, have you? Rape, I mean. It's a terrible thing, what human beings can do to each other."  
  
Remy found his voice, more or less. "Yeah, you right." he bowed his head, and brushed away a tear. He'd seen a lot of things in his sixteen years on the planet, but he'd never been exposed to this kind of savagery before. He realized, now, that Jean-Luc had protected him from a lot of things.   
  
Suddenly, the hand on his shoulder tightened, until it was like a vice.   
  
"No." The priest's voice sounded strange. Remy wiped the tears out of his eyes, and looked up. The priest was staring at the girl, his face terror-stricken. He began to shake visibly, and Remy jumped to his feet to keep the man from falling. "No, it can't be!" His voice was anguished. "My God, why?" He turned to Remy, grabbing the boy's shoulders with claw like hands. "Please, my son, you must tell me. Was she alone, this child?"  
  
Somehow, Remy knew his answer could only bring the man more pain, yet he knew he had to speak the truth. "She was wit' a woman," Remy replied softly. "She didn't make it."  
  
The priest shut his eyes, and whispered a prayer. He crossed himself, and then fell to his knees, weeping, great sobs wracking his body, and now it was Remy's turn to give him what comfort he could. After what seemed like a long time, his weeping quieted, and he rose shakily to his feet. Going to a prie-dieu in the corner, he knelt.   
  
He looked back to the girl. "She's my niece, you see," He said. "The woman, she is - was - my sister, Raven. I've asked her and asked her to come here with me, but she - was so stubborn. They were all the family I had." He turned back to Remy. "I'm glad you brought her here. It must have been God's will that you came here this morning." He paused. "Thank you." He paused again, and Remy was about to reply when he spoke again. "You are a Catholic, my son?" he asked. Remy nodded, and the priest gestured to another prie-dieu beside him. "Perhaps, then, you would not mind joining me in a Rosary? For the soul of my sister?"   
  
"Sure, Faddah," Remy did as asked. The priest pulled his beads from his pocket, and together they intoned the old prayers. Remy watched the man's fingers, twisted and bent as they were, slip over the beads with the practice of a lifetime. When they'd finished, he seemed calmer, and Remy was surprised to find that he felt somewhat better himself.   
  
"So, I guess I'd better be going," Remy said, standing and collecting his coat. "You prob'ly don' need my kind around here." He reached into his pocket, found a cigarette, and made to light it.  
  
"You don't have to go, do you?"  
  
Remy took a pull on the cigarette. "No, I ain' got no pressin' engagements."  
  
"I would appreciate it if you would stay. I am not very good with -" He lifted his hands, and shrugged.  
  
"Yeah, okay," Remy replied. Truth to tell, he was reluctant to leave them alone. A crippled priest with a severely injured child, not a good combination.   
  
"Good." The priest took a deep breath, relieved. "It would help a lot." He came to his feet, and went back to the cupboard. "I have some things, we can - clean Rogue up, at least."  
  
"Rogue?"   
  
"My niece," the priest gestured to the child. "Her real name was too difficult for her to say, she's always been Rogue." He smiled at some memory. "Such a sweet child, a little chatterbox. Raven -" his voice caught for a moment, but he took a deep breath, and went on. "My sister used to joke about it, saying that the only time she was quiet was when she was asleep."  
  
"My papa, he used to say the same t'ing about me, " Remy grinned. "I guess kids are all the same, huh, Faddah?"  
  
"Please, call me Kurt," the man replied. "Kurt Wagner. My niece is Rogue Darkholme. And your name? I know you said it before, but -"  
  
"Remy, Fa - Kurt. Remy LeBeau." He offered his hand to shake, and after a moment's hesitation, the man grasped his hand warmly. Remy couldn't help staring briefly at the scars. As if reading his mind, Kurt nodded.  
  
"I came through Mardi Mort fine," he said. "This was just last year. I got a bit careless, digging through some rubble after a fire." He held up his hands, turning them so Remy could see the thick scar tissue. "Crushed, and burned. Not the smartest thing I'd ever done." He shrugged. "Still, I'm alive, that's a miracle."   
  
"Yeah, I guess so," Remy agreed. He looked at Kurt thoughtfully. It took a special kind of man to see such a terrible crippling injury as a miracle. He found himself liking the priest even more. He reminded him, in many ways, of Jean-Luc.   
  
In his mind, suddenly, he heard his father's last words to him: "Family is the most important thing, Remy, you remember that. A man without family, he ain't got nothing, I don't care how much food or guns he got. You weren't born to me, but you're my son, right? You don't stay alone, you hear me? You find yourself someone you can trust, and you hold onto them for all you worth. They'll get you through anything. That's the real power in this world, now. A man alone, he ain't gonna survive."  
  
He looked at the girl Rogue, asleep on the pallet, and watched as Kurt gently washed away the blood and the dirt. They needed someone to protect them, someone to go out and scavenge for them, and that was Remy's line of work. He, on the other hand, needed a family, and these two suited the bill pretty well. He didn't know why he felt the affection for them that he did, but he knew, that very moment that he agreed to stay, that he would gladly give his life for them.  
  
Give his life, or take that of anyone who threatened them.  
  
Over the next few days, Remy brought over what few belongings he had to the church. It was a better shelter, at any rate, with most of the roof still intact, and with the fortified doors and the boarded windows, it was fairly secure. Still, he slept with a knife in reach, and woke at the least sound. He was unwilling to leave Kurt and Rogue alone for long, but the priest convinced him that he could do more good for their little band by doing what he did best. So, he went out, foraged for food and whatever else he could find, but he didn't stay away for long periods of time. He obtained clothing for Rogue, and obtained antiseptic for her wounds; he wouldn't tell Kurt how he'd come by the precious medical supplies, knowing that the priest would forbid him from doing it. But, Remy was accustomed to breaking into even the most heavily fortified compounds, and he was not afraid of the ganglords' goons. Well, maybe a little, but he was very careful, and never, ever caught.   
  
For his part, Kurt did what he could to take care of Rogue and Remy. The boy was street tough, undoubtedly well able to survive on his own, and Kurt knew that staying with Rogue and himself was placing a burden on him, but still, he could leave any time. Kurt also knew that beneath that tough exterior, Remy had a strong code of honor and a gentle, generous heart - not always an asset in the post Mardi Mort world, but still valued by those with faith. And Father Kurt Wagner may have lost all else - his parishioners, his sister and the full use of his hands - but he still retained his faith. He made it his goal to give this to Remy and Rogue as well.   
  
After about a week, Rogue seemed to recover, for the most part. The physical wounds began to heal, but the emotional ones were more stubborn. She jumped at every noise and any sudden movement, and was visibly frightened when Remy came near her, but his gentle manner eventually won her over, and Kurt's presence seemed to comfort her. Within a few weeks, she was running about the church, helping Remy prepare meals, and joining Kurt in his daily prayers - but silently. She never spoke a word, not in fear, not in laughter, not even in her sleep. Neither man could see any physical wound that would have caused her muteness, yet, it was obvious.  
  
It was also obvious that they could not stay in New Orleans much longer. Mardi Mort had destroyed much of the intricate system of canals, drains, and levees that had kept the Crescent City livable for centuries. Few of these survived now, and the least rain storm could mean flooding. Entire sections of the city were lost to the ever encroaching swamps and river. The church was located at a fair distance from the river, but it would only take one good storm to flood the entire area. To this end, Remy began stockpiling supplies, foodstuffs that could travel, extra clothing, matches, blankets - cigarettes, of course, and even some pralines for Rogue - whatever he could find. He located a map of the former United States, showing major highways and rivers. While most of the highways were impassable for vehicles - even if they'd had one, and had by some miracle found fuel for it - they would still provide a reliable route to follow.   
  
More importantly, he obtained a gun, and a good supply of ammunition.   
  
Kurt objected to this at first, but as Remy pointed out, they had no idea what lay beyond the environs of New Orleans. Rumors abounded of raiders roaming the countryside, attacking anyone fool enough to leave the relative safety of the cities. No one really knew, either, how much damage had been done to the land - radiation was still a very real threat, and with three quarters or more of the human population dead, wildlife was a real danger. Not only had several predatory species made an amazing comeback, but the numerous zoos had provided a host of new terrors. Wolves had been spotted on the outskirts of New Orleans, and once there'd been a report of a lion - and you didn't even want to think about the alligators.   
  
Unlike many other surviving cities, New Orleans had a ready supply of food, in the river, bayous and lakes, so the numerous horses and mules that had once pulled tourists were now put to work as dray animals. Somehow - and Kurt didn't dare ask how - Remy acquired a horse, and a good one, a young one. He rigged up a saddle, and at the onset of hurricane season, the three of them set off for higher ground.  
  
They made good time; about fifteen to twenty miles a day, by Kurt's reckoning. Remy had found, by some miracle, an actual piece of flint, and Rogue proved a fast learner; soon it became her job to build the fire every night.   
  
In fact, Rogue seemed to thrive on the outdoor life. She regained color to her cheeks, and even seemed to put on a bit of weight. Watching her weave flowers into long chains, Remy commented on this seemingly miraculous recovery.   
  
Kurt looked up from his missal with a curious expression. "Yes, I've noticed," he said, shutting the book. "I'm not so sure it's a good thing."  
  
"What you mean?" Remy asked, smiling as she brought the chain over to him, and then ran back to pick more flowers. "Look at her, she's happy, she's healthy. Her head's all healed up, can't even tell where she was cut, 'cept for that white." There was a large flash of white among the brown locks on her head, a legacy of the shock to her system. Remy thought it was about the prettiest thing he'd ever seen, but then, he thought just about everything about Rogue was wonderful. He was a thief, but she'd stolen his heart from the start. He turned back to Kurt. "'Cept for not talkin', she's pretty normal. Helps a lot, eatin' regular, I suppose."  
  
"There are other things that cause weight gain," Kurt said softly. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose.   
  
"What?" Remy furrowed his brow. "Say what you mean, Kurt. You know I ain't got the education you do."  
  
Kurt sighed heavily. "I think she's pregnant."  
  

>> 
>> [Scars part two][2]
>> 
>> [Back to Fan Fiction][3]
>> 
>> [Back to The Yat Cave][4]
>> 
>> [E-mail Maverick][5]
>> 
>>   


   [1]: Life.html
   [2]: http://www.angelfire.com/pe/nnyworth/Scars2.html
   [3]: fanfic.html
   [4]: index.html
   [5]: mailto:Robin_Mach_Two@Yahoo.com



	2. Default Chapter Title

> > Part Two
>> 
>>   
Remy stared at him incredulously. "What? No, no way. She's just a kid."
>> 
>> "She's thirteen," Kurt replied gently. "She's old enough, I know. Raven told me, some time ago. It's one of the reasons I wanted them to live with me, so I could protect her better." He bowed his head, and sighed again. "She's been with us over two months, Remy. Two months, and she's never had -" he blushed. "Well, you understand, don't you?"
>> 
>> "Yeah, I know what you mean." Remy felt himself coloring, too. Jean-Luc had told him the facts of life years ago, but some things were still embarrassing for a sixteen-year-old boy to think about. He looked back at Rogue, sitting a few yards away. It made sense, of course. Kurt was rarely wrong about things like that - he'd had medical training, had worked in Charity Hospital before it had burned, it was where he'd hurt his hands. "So, what do we do?"
>> 
>> "If you mean, when the time comes, I think we will manage." Kurt smiled wryly. "Women have been giving birth for thousands of years, most of it without benefit of an obstetrician. If you mean, how will we deal with an infant," he frowned, and buried his face in his ruined hands, "I don't know. I just don't know."
>> 
>> Kurt was proved right, for within a few more weeks, it was obvious that Rogue was indeed pregnant. She seemed oblivious of the fact, though, and when Kurt spoke to her about it, she only smiled, and shrugged her shoulders. At any rate, it didn't seem to give her much physical trouble; she clambered on and off the horse like she'd been born to it.
>> 
>> They continued on their trek, following first the Mississippi as far as Tennessee and then headed in a vaguely east-north-east course. Kurt thought it best to try to reach one of the cities along the eastern seaboard; as in New Orleans, a sea coast meant a steady food source, and most likely, the remnants of civilization. There was safety in numbers, after all. By summer, they'd reached Virginia, and began to see occasional signs of human habitation. They'd set up camp, and Remy would scout ahead to see if the locals were friendly. In most cases, they weren't, but sometimes, they'd find a group willing to exchange food and goods for a few days' work; Remy and Rogue quickly became skilled at picking cotton, tobacco, beans, or anything else. Kurt's medical knowledge, meager as it was, also proved a valuable tool for bartering. So, they got by.
>> 
>> By August, Rogue was very obviously with child, and they had to be very careful where they sought shelter and assistance. Many enclaves of survivors would give assistance to travelers, but a pregnant girl, and one so young, was often cause for misunderstanding; and misunderstandings could prove very dangerous. Most people tended to shoot first and ask questions later. The cataclysm had caused a great many illnesses, not the least of which was sterility. Children were therefore valued, and anyone even suspected of doing harm to a child was frequently lynched. It took all of Remy's and Kurt's combined diplomatic skills to save their hides more than once.
>> 
>> One thing that became very clear, and that was that Rogue was terrified of other men. It didn't matter how kind or gentle he might be, a strange man who so much as came near her would cause the girl to cower in fear; if he got close enough to touch her, she would collapse into hysterics, wailing and keening, becoming like a wild animal. Women presented no such problem, and she was drawn to youngsters regardless of their gender, but not men. Kurt and Remy, it seemed, were the only adult males she trusted.
>> 
>> They decided that the safest course of action was to stay away from other people as much as possible. They were able to live off the land fairly well - gardens, orchards, and farms had been allowed to grow wild, and food was surprisingly abundant, and Remy could always travel alone into a village to barter or otherwise obtain what they needed. So it was that when Rogue's time came, they were alone in a ruined farmhouse, somewhere in North Carolina so far as they could tell.
>> 
>> Kurt was more frightened than he'd been in a long time. Rogue was, as near as he could determine, still in her second trimester, but there was no denying the signs. He'd spent enough time in the ER of Charity Hospital to recognize labor when he saw it. Even in a populated area, the chances were slim that the child would survive, and the mother's chances were not much better, either. Had he had full use of his hands, he thought, perhaps there would be a better chance. As it was, he gave Remy explicit instructions, did what he could to calm Rogue, and then prayed with all his soul.
>> 
>> Rogue was terrified, too, either unable or unwilling to understand what Kurt and Remy told her. The labor pains were very bad, she screamed and beat her hands on the floor until they were bloody. Remy had obtained some moonshine whiskey, thinking that they could use it as an antiseptic, since the stuff was too awful to drink, and in the end, they made Rogue drink it. Small as she was, it didn't take a lot to intoxicate her to the point of feeling no pain.
>> 
>> Remy was also uneasy. He chain-smoked nearly his entire supply of cigarettes in the space of a few hours, and even drank some of the wretched whiskey. He'd found, somewhere, a deck of playing cards, and had been practicing with them, relearning the card shark skills that Jean-Luc had once taught him. He wasn't quite sure why, but it helped him to think clearly, having something for his hands to do. So he shuffled them ceaselessly, almost like a physical mantra.
>> 
>> Kurt retained some hope that both Rogue and the child would survive. Remy did not.
>> 
>> Rogue, he knew, was physically strong, at least as strong as their limited diet would allow. But childbirth was dangerous, and even fully grown, healthy, adult women died from it these days. If Rogue died, there would be no chance for the child to survive. It was doubtful that the two men could keep the child warm enough, let alone obtain milk for it. If Rogue did manage to survive the ordeal, there were other complications to consider. He was no expert on anatomy, but he'd seen enough pregnant women to know that the body provided for the child, and Rogue's bosom was no different from when he'd first found her; her small breasts were not producing milk. Kurt had told him what to expect, too, since the priest had been trained as something of a medic. Childbirth involved blood loss, and it would take a lot of effort to keep Rogue herself alive long enough to heal and recover. They couldn't stay here for very long, the food was running low and there were no settlements nearby to find any supplies. They'd have to leave within a day, or chance having no food at all. If Rogue was weakened from blood loss, or feverish, or just in pain from the birthing process, she couldn't ride without help, and probably couldn't walk. Someone would have to carry her, and if by some miracle the child also survived, someone would have to carry it, as well.
>> 
>> Kurt, while having extensive knowledge of what to do, couldn't actually do most of it; his crippled hands were basically useless; he could just barely hold a spoon to feed himself, he could turn the pages of his missal, and he could brush the hair out of Rogue's fevered brow, but not a hell of a lot else. Remy knew he wasn't strong enough to carry Rogue, and doubted that he could manage to carry an infant; he certainly couldn't tend to the child's needs.
>> 
>> Remy knew that it all would fall on his shoulders. He'd have to take care of all three of them. It took all his skills and energy as it was to provide for Kurt and Rogue, to find enough food to keep the three of them alive. More than once, he'd forgone eating for a day or more, so that they'd not go hungry. If there was yet another mouth to feed, he didn't know what would happen.
>> 
>> He shuffled the cards, and thought.
>> 
>> He'd grown very fond of Rogue in the months they'd been together, and the affection was not entirely fraternal. She was still a child, true, but she was thirteen, nearly fourteen, and he was not much beyond that himself, perhaps seventeen at most, according to Jean-Luc's estimation. It wasn't a large difference, or at least, it wouldn't be in a few years. And he knew, in his very soul, that he loved her, that he would always love her, no matter what. He doubted that she'd ever fully recover from the rape, and that sex was not likely to ever be possible, but it didn't change things. There were things a man could do to deal with those particular needs, and after all, it wasn't like he'd die from lack of sex; if a priest like Kurt could live a celibate life, Remy knew he could, too. No, the sex wasn't that important. It would be enough to be able to hold Rogue, to have her in his life, to sleep with her in his arms. He could live with that.
>> 
>> He could not live without her.
>> 
>> Remy continued to shuffle the cards in his hands, and then stopped. He stacked them up neatly, and took a deep breath, and cut the cards. Slowly, he turned over the deck. Facing him was the Ace of spades.
>> 
>> You couldn't get clearer than that.
>> 
>> Finally, he heard Kurt calling him, and knew the time for deliberation was done. He went to Rogue's side, and did what Kurt told him. It went fairly quickly, once it all started. Rogue's daughter was born just as the sun was setting. Kurt, ever the priest, had his priest's tools ready, and almost as soon as the cord was cut, the child was baptized; they'd agreed some time before to name the child after Rogue's mother. As the priest intoned the words, Remy was shocked to find that his friend had added something without telling him.
>> 
>> "What'd you do dat for!" Remy demanded. "Why'd you give her my name? You know I didn't do -"
>> 
>> "Hush, Remy," Kurt said, handing him the small bundle to hold. "I know you aren't her father. But I know you love Rogue, and when she's old enough, I'll marry the two of you, if you like. The baby needed a name, and it will be easier to deal with people if she has yours."
>> 
>> "Yeah, you right," Remy sighed. He looked back at Rogue, who lay sleeping near the fire. She'd come through it well, all things considered. The child's premature size had helped, undoubtedly.
>> 
>> "You must keep her warm," Kurt said, putting away his kit. "She's very weak, but I think she'll survive."
>> 
>> Remy looked down at the tiny form in his arms. He moved the flannel away from her face, and felt a large lump in his throat. She was beautiful, no denying that. He could see Rogue in her small features, and he stared at her face, memorizing every line, every detail. He wanted to remember this moment, he never wanted to forget it. Then, he walked away from the light of the fire, out where he could see the stars overhead.
>> 
>> He bent over the child in his arms, and tenderly kissed the tiny face. "Je t'aime, ma petite," he murmured. "Je t'aime avec tout mon coeur, toute ma vie." He reached up and wiped away a tear that forced its way out. "Mais, p'tite, je t'aime ta mère plus. La vie sans elle, ce n'est pas une vie. Je suis désolé, ma p'tite. Ma belle petite . . ."
>> 
>> "Remy," Kurt called from the other side of the room. "Remy, I have the milk ready."
>> 
>> "Don' bother," came the reply from the darkness.
>> 
>> "What do you -"
>> 
>> "The child died." Remy walked back into the circle of light from the fire. "She's dead."
>> 
>> Kurt stared in disbelief. "But, she was breathing, I saw it myself -"
>> 
>> "Kurt, she didn' make it." Remy's voice was steady, strong, the way he was strong. Strong enough to take care of all of them. Strong enough to keep the three of them alive. Strong enough to make the hard decisions. He handed the dead child to Kurt, and walked over to the fire. He took the deck of cards out of his pocket, and began sorting through them. One by one, he burned every spade and club in the deck, until only the red suits were left.
>> 
>> Kurt watched at the young man thoughtfully. Remy's face was a mask, betraying no emotion, but the hands that methodically tossed cards into the fire were shaking. There was pain there, no doubt about it, such pain that the priest quickly said a prayer for his soul. Then, he said a prayer for the young soul that he knew, somehow, had made the ultimate sacrifice for them.
>> 
>> They buried Raven LeBeau beneath a rose bush, with the full rites of the Roman church; Remy carved a small headstone from a board torn from the farmhouse, and they moved on. They didn't speak much of the incident later. Whenever Kurt tried to broach the subject, Remy gave him a cold stare that brooked no further discussion.
>> 
>> Rogue seemed to not be affected by it, and it was doubtful that she'd even understood what had happened. She was able to travel after two days, and within a few weeks, she was fully recovered.
>> 
>> They continued to head eastward, but found fewer settlements. The terrain was difficult, as they were getting into the Appalachians, and trying to eke out a living in those rocky peaks had never been easy. They were only able to manage ten miles a day, if that. Food was scarce, even game was hard to come by. They had been out of food for three days when the woman found them.
>> 
>> She was beautiful by anyone's standards, her skin the color of café au lait, her hair a silvery white. She rode a horse that not only looked stronger than the poor, exhausted nag they'd brought from New Orleans, but actually looked plump and well cared for. The woman, too, looked relatively well fed, and her clothing was new and whole, if homespun.
>> 
>> "Can I offer you assistance?" she'd asked them.
>> 
>> They'd holed up in a large cabin that was surprisingly intact. Remy stood at the door, his hand in his pocket gripping the gun that he hoped would be enough to scare off any threats - they'd been out of ammunition for over a month. "Why you want to help us, huh?" Remy was not about to be fooled by a pretty face or an offer of help; both were standard tricks of raiding parties.
>> 
>> "My name is Ororo Lehnsherr. I mean you no harm. I only want to help. Please, you must believe me."
>> 
>> Kurt slipped up behind Remy. "Is there a settlement near here?" he asked. "We haven't seen any signs of other people."
>> 
>> "My husband and I have a stronghold, and periodically we go out searching for those such as yourselves," the woman answered. "We saw signs of someone traveling, and followed you here." She smiled gently.
>> 
>> "What you want?" Remy glared at her. "We ain't got nothin' for you to steal -"
>> 
>> "Remy, please," Kurt spoke softly. "Perhaps she can help us. She is not going to do us harm. Trust me, I - I think I know her." He stepped out from behind Remy, and walked out to meet the woman. "You are Ororo Munro, are you not? I remember you."
>> 
>> "I am flattered, Father," Ororo replied, noting the unmistakable, if faded, vestments of a Catholic priest. "Have we met?"
>> 
>> "Yes, once, but I don't expect you to remember," Kurt smiled, and held out his hand. "You helped out with a benefit for famine relief, in New Orleans. Just before your marriage, I believe it was."
>> 
>> "I remember that," she smiled, and turned back to Remy. "I thought I recognized the accent. Vous ètes Acadien, n'est-ce-pas? Vous parlez français, aussi?"
>> 
>> Remy blinked at her, and answered automatically. "Oui, je suis Cajun." Then, he caught himself. Don't fall under her spell. She's a beautiful woman, she speaks French, but she could still be a trap. Yet, there was something about her that invited trust. And Kurt knew her. "I speak English, too," he said, deciding to go with the gut feeling.
>> 
>> "It's been so long since I spoke it, I am afraid I was carried away," she smiled. "Now, please, let me help you. I have supplies, you look like you could use a good meal."
>> 
>> Reluctantly, Remy stepped aside, and Kurt ushered her into the cabin. Rogue, seeing a new face, and a woman, came to her immediately. Ororo smiled at the girl, and Rogue flew into her arms.
>> 
>> "What a lovely child," Ororo said.
>> 
>> "My niece," Kurt replied. "Her name is Rogue. She doesn't speak."
>> 
>> "I see," Ororo smiled at Rogue, and ran a hand gently over the long scar on her face. "If one of you would bring my horse inside, there are food and other supplies in the pack. Please, help yourselves."
>> 
>> Remy did as asked, and had to admit it was good to eat again. True to her word, the pack was filled with food and other supplies. After they'd eaten, the woman took him aside.
>> 
>> "I can see that you are the one to speak to," she said, speaking softly so that Kurt and Rogue wouldn't hear. "You are responsible for their lives. You have to realize, by now, that there is not much food around here."
>> 
>> "Yeah, I've noticed."
>> 
>> "It is October. Winter is coming. You are not accustomed to this climate. You will die, unless you come with me."
>> 
>> This was not news to Remy; he'd been concerned about the increasing cold. "Where to?" he asked.
>> 
>> "It is not far from here. There is a trail, but it is well hidden, and you may not have found it on your own. We can be back among my people within two days."
>> 
>> "Your people?" Remy looked at her curiously. "You got a stronghold or somethin'?"
>> 
>> "My husband and I have a large compound, yes. You would be welcome there. The work is hard, you would be expected to do your fair share, but you would have enough food and shelter. And you would be free to leave any time."
>> 
>> "What's the catch?" Remy asked. He liked the sound of that, and it was what they'd been planning on from the start. Still, he had to be careful.
>> 
>> "There is no catch." She looked straight into his eyes. "There is strength in numbers. You know this. You are a young man, your strong arms could do much good. The good father is a holy man, he could give comfort to the souls of our people. The child, Rogue - " Ororo paused, and then smiled gently. "She is a young woman. She needs to be around others of her sex."
>> 
>> "Maybe -"
>> 
>> "You know I am right, Remy." The smile faded, replaced by an expression that reminded Remy of the woman who'd help raise him; his Tante Mattie had looked much the same when she'd made him do something 'for his own good.' "You have been carrying the burden of their welfare for too long. You cannot do it alone, not forever. Please, come with me. We can help each other."
>> 
>> "I got to think about it," he replied. He stepped past her, and went outside, to sit on the railing that ran around the porch. He pulled out the thin deck of cards, and began to shuffle them.
>> 
>> Could he trust this woman? How did he know she didn't have a raiding party waiting just out of sight? Yet, there was something about her that instilled trust in him. She was so forthright, so bluntly honest. Kurt knew her, claimed that she'd been renowned for her charitable works. That didn't mean much these days, yet, someone who'd helped others when she didn't need to, maybe she was being honest with him. It was true, Rogue needed to be around other women, if only for the comfort that they could give in a simple touch. And Kurt. The man was a priest, it was his vocation, but more than that, he needed to minister to a flock. His crippled hands prevented him from doing many things, and a man needed to feel that he was doing his part, he needed to feel that he was useful somehow.
>> 
>> And what about himself? He wanted to be able to sleep, to really sleep, at night, secure in the knowledge that Kurt and Rogue were safe. He wanted to have a full stomach, not just once in awhile, but on a regular basis. Being among other people, being part of a community, that could make those things possible. It was a tempting offer. He'd carried this burden for a long time, and he wanted so much to lay it down. His heart told him to listen to her, to go with the woman, but his icy, stone-cold stubbornness told him to go it alone.
>> 
>> He stopped shuffling the cards, and cut the deck. The card he turned over was a heart. He went back inside.
>> 
>> "Okay," he said, meeting Ororo's gaze evenly. "We go with you."
>> 
>> About four miles from the cabin, a small group met them, several men and women, all armed but all s welcoming as Ororo had been. Remy was panicked at first, but when no one made the least threatening move toward them, he calmed himself. When one of the men toward Rogue, extending his hand to help her onto his horse, Remy jumped between them, ready to kill the man if he so much as touched her. The man, naturally, reacted by jumping to the ground and drawing his weapon.
>> 
>> "Pietro!" It took only a word from Ororo, and the man sheathed the weapon and stepped back. A few whispered words to him, and he nodded. Much to Remy's surprise, the man spoke to him.
>> 
>> "My apologies," he said, nodding curtly in Remy's direction. "I meant no harm. I only wished to help her." He remounted his horse, and moved to the far end of the small group.
>> 
>> There were no more incidents after that. Ororo's group had several spare horses, and both Kurt and Remy were able to ride the rest of the way. True to her word, too, within two days, they'd reached the large, fortified compound near the ruins of Washington.
>> 
>> Remy was amazed at the size of the place. It was easily larger than the entire French Quarter, and filled with people. All ages, all colors, the place was teeming with life. After so many months spent alone with Kurt and Rogue, it was almost frightening. But, Remy was a city boy, and besides, he wasn't about to let these strangers think he was weak.
>> 
>> Ororo took them directly to a large building in the center of the compound. She led them through a large hall, filled with still more people scurrying about. Finally, they stopped outside a heavy wooden door. Two men stood there, guards, both wearing side arms and expressions that said, very clearly, that no one and nothing was getting past them without their permission. The one on the left sported a blond mane of hair and a five-o'clock shadow that would cut steel; the one on the left was dark of hair and eye, with the heavy features of Eastern Europe. Both were massive, and looked like they could easily break Remy in two without breaking a sweat.  
  
Ororo, however, smiled at both of them. "Victor, Piotr. It's good to see you both again. I believe my husband is expecting us."   
  
Amazingly, the guards smiled back, and stepped aside, opening the door for her.  
  
Inside was a relatively small room, windowless, lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves filled with books. There were various mechanical and electrical devices scattered around, blinking and crackling with noise. None of this was as impressive, however, as the man standing behind the large desk.   
  
"Magnus," Ororo said, stopping before the desk and gesturing at the little group. "These are the people I sent word about. This is Father Kurt Wagner, Remy LeBeau, and -" here, she paused slightly. "Rogue, Father Wagner's niece. They've agreed to join us." She turned back to the three behind her. "This is my husband, Erik Magnus Lehnsherr. He is the one in charge of everything you've seen."  
  
The explanation wasn't necessary, as no one could mistake the fact that this was a true leader, in every sense of the word. Magnus stood over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and silvery white hair. His eyes were icy blue, and there was a strength in his features that was undeniable.   
  
"Welcome to Avalon," he said, extending a hand first to Kurt, and then to Remy. He made no move towards Rogue, but smiled gently at her before turning his attention back to the two men. "You are all welcome here. You may stay as long as you wish, and leave any time you wish. You will be given quarters, and we'll find work for you. While you are with us, you will receive the same protection as anyone else, and likewise, you will be subject to the same laws. You will learn all these things soon enough."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Lehnsherr," Kurt said. "We are very grateful."  
  
"Yeah, thanks," Remy said, unsure of what else to do. He noticed that Rogue was eyeing Magnus warily, and quickly slipped an arm around her comfortingly. "It's alright, chere," he said softly.   
  
"You are quite welcome," Magnus replied. "Please, call me Magnus. We don't hold with a lot of formality here. I am the leader here, but I am no more important than anyone else. I am doing a job, the same as anyone else."  
  
Remy doubted the validity of that claim, but there was little time to ponder it. They were soon settled into some rooms in one of the many buildings, and for the first time in a long, long time, he was able to sleep soundly.   
  
Within a few days, they'd been assigned jobs. Kurt, in light of his medical knowledge, was assigned to the infirmary, and was also given a small storeroom to serve as a chapel. While not all of the inhabitants were Catholic, or even Christian, he soon found his makeshift church filled regularly; a somewhat ecumenical service developed, incorporating the numerous faiths of the people in Avalon. Whatever the uniqueness of the creed, it served its purpose; the Avalonians found comfort, and Father Kurt had a useful purpose again.  
  
Rogue had grown attached to Ororo over the course of the few days they'd been traveling together. It came as no surprise, then, when Ororo asked Rogue to act as nursemaid to Ororo's and Magnus's small son, Charles. Rogue and Charles bonded almost immediately, and the girl seemed to thrive on the work.   
  
Remy tried to avoid seeing the two of them together, whenever he could.
>> 
>> For his part, Remy found his assignment to be not nearly as bad as he'd anticipated. His foraging skills were not needed here, as Avalon had several working farms attached to it. His other skills were likewise not needed, and in fact, were subject to severe penalties; looting, stealing, and card-sharking were against Magnus's Law. So, he worked wherever he was sent, constructing buildings, digging wells, generally using his strong arms to do what was needed. Frequently, he was sent to work with Pietro, who, he'd learned, was Magnus's son from an earlier, pre-cataclysm union.   
  
This was the thorn on an otherwise rosy life. Pietro and Remy did not get along. Pietro was one of those people who are driven; much like his father, no doubt. But, where Magnus instilled a sense of worthiness and determination in those who worked with him, Pietro had a tendency to be patronizing and imperialistic. Most of the other men and women who worked with him shrugged it off, and to be honest, he had a great many good qualities that far outshined this one, infrequent, flaw. Remy didn't give a damn about the good qualities. Pietro Lehnsherr made no secret of his disgust for the young thief, and Remy likewise didn't hide his distaste for what he saw as shameless nepotism. However, Remy knew that life at Avalon was better than the alternative, so he gritted his teeth, and did what he could to avoid the boss's son.   
  
Life quickly fell into a fairly pleasant routine. Three years flew past before they'd known it. Rogue grew into a beautiful young woman, despite the scar on her face, yet she still never spoke a word. Kurt, with the help of a lot of physical therapy, was able to regain a great deal of use of his hands, to the point that he could write; he immediately began to attempt to organize the various religious practices of his flock into one somewhat coherent whole. Remy gained a reputation as a hard worker, and a damned good fighter, studying every other fighter in Avalon, and mastering several styles of hand to hand combat and becoming very proficient with a bo staff and small throwing knives. Even Vic Creed, Head of Security, grudgingly admitted that the boy was no one to mess with.  
  
So, about three years after they'd first arrived, it was little surprise that Magnus called him in one day, and asked him to accompany himself and Ororo on a journey to another compound. Remy could have refused, of course, but knew that if Ororo was going, Charles would go, and wherever the boy went, Rogue went with him. So, he agreed, and they set off for someplace called the Xavier Compound.   
  
Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä Ä  
  
Translation of the French for non-francophones: "I love you, little one. I love you with all my heart, all my life. But, little one, I love your mama more. Life without her, it isn't life. I'm sorry, my little one. My beautiful little one...."  

>> 
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